


Blow Out

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is playing the field...and is taking some injuries in stride along the way. As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow Out

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Imp for finding the article that inspired this contribution to the "Sex and Consequences" collection. Five authors took a different 'ailment' and wrote about it. Guess what I was left with? This is my first Sherlock fandom smut and my first crack fic, I think, ever. Although my plot beta seems to think different. Many thanks to brit-picker and dear friend Small_Hobbit. You're a trooper.

*****

Greg blamed it on Sherlock’s scrawny, boney bum.

 

That, and his own inability to say ‘no.’

 

What could you really do? When the game was on, lives were at stake and his curly-haired Highness’ wellbeing was in question? If he wanted you, he got you. Not that Greg would say ‘no,’ of course. It’s just, well.

 

It was _inconvenient._

 

When Sherlock wanted to bottom, well, he _bottomed from the top_. Anatomy and physiology be damned and all that. Never mind that Greg was 50 years young, his dick was slightly curved and he’d been more than hot and bothered about this rare genius for quite some time –

 

“Ooh, _cor_ …”

 

And he had felt _so good_ , slamming into him from above, visually fucking stimulating to be quite honest, those perfectly formed curls bouncing just _so_. God, it made him more aroused just looking at him and Greg closed his eyes, hoping that this blissful moment would last forever until he heard the fateful

 

_POP_

 

It was like knuckles cracking and Greg frowned. There was no pain but he sensed that something was a _bit not good_. But God, did Sherlock look practically angelic, so lost in his imminent orgasm, riding Greg’s dick like it was the stallion fuck that he’d wanted and hoped for for so long –

 

“Sherlock, stop.”

 

He was so lost, but only just, “Lestraaaaade….”

 

“No, really. _Stop_.”

 

And like that, the younger man reacted as though doused with cold water. He halted mid-thrust.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Long silence. Maybe five painless seconds.

 

Before the pain set in.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

*   *   *

 

“So you really can’t explain this to me?”

 

John Watson never expected much action from locum work. He’d had the odd bout of elephantiasis from an African safari fanatic but this took the cake, so to speak.

 

This had to do with his _partner_. Granted, it was a secret relationship. But he was not going to be lied to. Even by omission.

 

“Greg. I won’t tell anyone about this. I’m not your boyfriend at this moment. I am your _doctor_. So do us both a favor, save us some time and let. Me. Help. You.”

 

Greg was in obvious pain and the painkillers were wearing off. “This is a conflict of interest and you know it, _doctor_. So please, if you would? Get me someone else.”

 

John set his jaw in a line that normally would thrill Greg to such extreme, and planted his feet, hands on hips, nodding, resigned. “Preference?” He looked up hopefully, with kinder eyes.

 

“Molly Hooper.”

 

*   *   *

 

“Um, hi.”

 

“Hello. Do you think you can do this, because I don’t want to distress you –“

 

“No! No, I can; it’s just I-I’m surprised you asked for me.”

 

“Frankly, it’s because you’re a woman. You might be less…reactive. And it has nothing to do with _you_ , it’s just well – about _anatomy_.” Greg winced. The pain was becoming unbearable and his squirming was difficult to mask.

 

“Do you need another painkiller?” Molly offered up helpfully.

 

Greg hissed in a breath and smiled weakly, “No. If I have another, I won’t be as lucid.”

 

And then, as though they’d known one another since they were children, running around naked in the garden, Greg unbuttoned his trousers, unzipped the fly, and began gingerly pulling down his…pants.

 

The only audible gasp from the examination room came from Miss Hooper.

 

“I know it’s hard to look at, but I Googled it,” Greg was wincing and looking away, swallowing nervously, “It’s purple, swollen and tender and I’m pretty certain that it’s a fracture.”

 

Molly looked as though she’d been hit on the head with a cricket bat.

 

Greg took her silence as a cue to go on with his explanation.

 

“I know that there are no bones in the penis, but I discovered that the tunic-albee-what-have-you, can be…well, perforated. Blood fills that chamber when erect, but if its membrane is broken, blood can escape, swell the extremities and… _bruise_. Causing…” Greg took another hissing sip of air, “… _pain._ I think I need surgery to repair the damage – in whatever medical terms, I don’t remember the specifics of the website I visited – and close up the…fissure? Yes, I think ‘fissure’ was _one_ of the words I’d seen.” Greg visibly shuddered but it seemed he had not noticed his own reaction.

 

“ _Tunica albuginea_.” Molly was otherwise dumbstruck, but due to her training as a medical doctor, all of what she saw before her and what he said (via netdoctor, surely) made perfect sense.

 

“What? Oh, right. Yeah, I knew I’d get that part wrong.”

 

She finally came out of her stupor and brightened up in full Mollyesque fashion, “I can help with a GP referral, which will get you in touch with a urological surgeon and you’ll be in tiptop shape in no time!”

 

*   *   *

 

It was a mystery to John Watson. A mystery he wanted to deduce on his own.

 

Basically, who was having sex with his boyfriend? Albeit, _secret_ boyfriend. So it wasn’t as though he could investigate openly.

 

While Greg was in surgery, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Sherlock and Molly were in the waiting area, each of them ‘pacing’ in their own distinctive way. Sherlock was reading a Chemistry tome, Mycroft was answering emails on his smartphone, Mrs. Hudson was trying to make tea from an electric kettle she’d basically stolen from the canteen and Molly, well. She was actually pacing.

 

Greg didn’t really have much of a social life outside of work. For as long as John had known him, work _was_ his life. He wore the emotional scars of divorce from that choice two Christmases ago and it hadn’t smoothed over since. But there was a rule: Greg Lestrade would not bed anyone at the Yard.

 

Which is why it made John feel special that he had chosen a work colleague, albeit not from the Metropolitan pool, but from the ‘private sector.’ It’s how John had found out Lestrade’s first name - on their first date. It was ridiculous to call him by his last name, so he felt proud and privileged when he was able to reveal this to an oblivious Sherlock in Baskerville.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The curls covering his forehead barely quivered.

 

“ _Sherlock_.” John said it with more volume, deeper in tone.

 

The consulting detective finally looked up from his Chemistry tome.

 

“When was the last time you saw Greg?”

 

Brow furrowed, ice blue eyes impossibly confused, “ ‘Greg’?”

 

“Yes, _Greg Lestrade_ , you genius imbecile –“

 

That piqued Mycroft’s interest and he looked up from his mobile with a smile.

 

_Why is he here?_

“At Baker Street,” Sherlock looked at John purposefully but there was something about his eyes and the way they shifted that felt like a tell.

 

“And was he there for a case?”

 

Sherlock closed the tome with a bit more defensive vehemence than was expected and John knew him well enough to know that the next statement would be a lie.

 

“Yes.”

 

John closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. “You shagged him, didn’t you?”

 

Sherlock looked around the stock-still room – Molly had stopped pacing, Mycroft’s mobile was beeping endlessly with new texts but he was smiling, unwilling to answer them, Mrs. Hudson was about to scald herself with the kettle mid-pour –

 

“I…may have. Yes. I did.”

 

John only saw a bright shade of crimson in his vision and lunged at the spot named Sherlock that it was radiating from.

 

Before they knew it, both men were on the floor and Dr. Watson was very close to ending the life of one Sherlock Holmes –

 

Suddenly, his world went gray, fuzzing out like the telly in a bad storm, and he could barely breathe.

 

“Easy, John,” Mycroft sighed, his arm letting go just partway, enough to let the former army doctor take in _some_ air, “I want to kill my brother at moments, but this is not the time, nor the place. You agree?”

 

Wordless, breathless, and at this point, hopeless, John nodded and relaxed his muscles, communicating surrender. Mycroft let go and air returned to his lungs with a gasp.

 

“My brother has coveted your detective inspector for some time. It’s a disappointment that you have been the last to notice.” Mycroft was up and polished, as though not a hair had been disturbed on his head by putting John into a headlock at all.

 

One look at Sherlock and it was clear that the elder Holmes had been correct. Guilt was written on his face, however haughty it was.

 

“The _one thing_ , Sherlock!” John kicked a chair, “The one thing you told me – ‘easy to kill Lestrade, don’t know why someone hasn’t done it yet’ – told me you didn’t fancy him. Are you doing this to torment me?”

 

Sherlock’s defiant face fell and it took John’s breath away, caught him off-guard.

 

The twit had the nerve to look…offended.

 

“You are my best friend; whoever you hold in high esteem, I would as well. This was a natural progression –“

 

“ _Bollocks!_ ”

 

“All right, so he’s good-looking and has a nice cock, surely you’ve noticed.”

 

Audible groans from Mycroft and Molly. Mrs. Hudson, however, was grinning and riveted.

 

John moved in, inches from Sherlock, clenching and unclenching his fists, “Do you want me to strangle you?”

 

Saved by the doctor – literally. The urological surgeon, Mr. Stevens came around the corner. “Uhm, are you next of kin to Greg Lestrade?”

 

“No, I’m his partner.” Sherlock and John had uttered it at the same moment.

 

Ice filled the room instantly and the temperature of the waiting area dropped radically.

 

“A-All right.” Stevens was a modern man. He could do this. So he turned his body in both Sherlock and John’s directions, “D.I. Lestrade is doing well. He’s in recovery. Ten stitches total. It will take a month of healing until he can – well – polish his knob off again, so to speak, ha ha –“

 

The attempt to lighten the mood fell on deaf ears and Stevens was met with silence.

 

He coughed and cleared his throat. All right. Down to business, “He’ll need ice on it periodically, but no worries. This happens quite a bit, you’d be surprised. I’ve done this surgery more than a dozen times now with no problems –“

 

“When can we see him, Doctor?” Sherlock invaded Stevens’ personal space. Followed by John.

 

“Why, they’re wheeling him into his room now.”

 

*   *   *

 

Waking up from the anesthetic was the worst part of the experience, like taking a sledgehammer hit to the skull, and Greg considered himself pretty lucky under the circumstances. It would’ve been the last thing he expected – that thing being a broken dick - to be the vehicle that would bring out the truth of not one, but _two_ secret love affairs in his life, but who was he to quibble?

 

In fact, everyone in his hospital room – John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Mycroft – appeared with varying grades of worry on their faces that were singularly and collectively more grave than his own.

 

“Oh, come now. Where are the jokes? Gimme! I’m ready for ‘em,” He offered up a dimpled smile of self-deprecation.

 

John’s eyes looked practically wounded, his jaw was set, arms folded as he turned to his left, “Sherlock, what do you have to say for yourself?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a soundless sigh of exasperation before answering in a robotic tone, “I apologize for my behavior and it won’t happen again. I did not think before I acted and I should have considered your relationship with John before seducing you.”

 

All anyone could hear was the soft swish of people going about their hospital business just outside the door. It was like the world had ended because Sherlock Holmes was admitting he was wrong.

 

“Now hold on!” Greg wanted to leap out of bed but knew that would be pushing his luck, “That’s not how this goes. You did not seduce me and I can make my own choices as I damn well please –“

 

“You have to choose, Greg,” John interrupted, his eyes still sad, “I can’t share you with this idiot –“

 

“Ooh, dear. Another domestic,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, picked at the corner of her mouth and turned to leave –

 

“Martha, you don’t have to go,” Greg called out. This was a conversation he was not afraid of.

 

“Oh, no – I’m not missing this for the world, but I think you might need some tea for fortitude. Be back in a jiffy!” And she was gone.

 

Tea. What a great idea. Would help with the anesthetic wearing off.

 

“John,” Greg let out a breath and smiled, “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but I’ve fancied your flatmate long before you came into both our lives and Saturday? Well, it was a culmination of quite a bit of flirting – in the way that Sherlock _allows_ himself to flirt, which includes forgetting my name on occasion and while I do adore how angry you get about it, I refuse to give both of you up.”

 

More shocked silence. Who knew that Greg Lestrade had a plan? And it was this?

 

“Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson knocked twice as a courtesy and came in with a cuppa. “Here, darling, hope it’s not too hot,” She handed him the mug as well as a smallish bag of ice, “The nurses said you might need this,” and placed the bag on the region vaguely estimated to be the groin area, “They’ll be coming round to give you pain meds in a bit so don’t drink it all, save a bit for that…Now what did I miss?” She pulled a chair from the side and scooted it up to Greg’s bedside to sit for a spell.

 

A weak exhale from Molly, “Greg’s been having sex with both John and Sherlock and wants to continue doing that.”

 

Everyone but Mrs. Hudson turned to her, surprised, like they’d forgotten she was there.

 

“Hello, yes, still here. Professional interest. Purely professional,” Molly smiled.

 

“Oh, but that’s not a surprise!” Mrs. Hudson interjected, “You all love each other. And we all love Greg,” she patted his hand and whispered, “And I know from personal experience that a nice cock is so difficult to come by.”

 

Groans from the peanut gallery.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, must you always make this about some silly anecdote –“

 

Sherlock turned to the source of that comment, “Mycroft, why _are_ you here.”

 

A corner of the elder Holmes’ mouth quirked up, “I had a feeling that the detective inspector would hold his ground. I’m offering him a place to recover – a secret location, if you will – to convalesce and so that you two can come to a resolution favorable to all involved—“

 

Sherlock invaded his brother’s personal space, hissing, “Don’t try and trick us. You want an opportunity to have Lestrade to yourself. You’ve always envied my connection with him and want to insinuate yourself in there –“

 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” it was that warning tone Greg made. “While I admire your brother, truly, I’ve made up my mind; two lovers is about my limit. And yes, Mycroft, thank you for the offer. I shall take you up on it –“

 

“ _Greg_!” John and Sherlock protested simultaneously.

 

“And I expect neither one of you to move out of Baker Street. Use this month to find a way to – if not fall in lust with one another – learn to live with this…situation…with some…some…”

 

“Aplomb?” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella for effect.

 

Greg smiled and pointed triumphantly, snapping his fingers, “What you said, yes.”

 

*   *   *

 

A month and a week had passed. Greg had made a follow-up visit with Mr. Stevens after the stitches had been removed and was deemed fit as could be. It was an interesting thirty-seven days celibate and luckily for all concerned, the incident hadn’t turned him off the sex act entirely.

 

He’d been out of touch, as promised, and had been nervous about it the entire time. But it wasn’t due to any level of physical discomfort. He had weaned himself off the painkillers quite quickly and Mycroft had set him up in the late Lestrade home, the family farm in Somerset that had since been made into a bed-and-breakfast after his mother died. He was the only resident there for that month; Greg was sure that the British government had had something to do with that and decided not to question it too much. The thoughtfulness of such a choice was answer enough and the detective inspector spent the occasional walk on the shoreline counting his blessings with each rolling in of the waves.

 

It had given him an opportunity to read all of his mother’s old books (which had been left behind), take stock of what it meant to be a Lestrade and also think about the kind of relationships he wanted for the future, and whether or not he wanted to continue the family name in some way. Yes, Greg was lucky indeed. Having a penile fracture was almost a wake-up call for how risky Sherlock was. Fortunately, he hadn’t lost both testicles; it would be nice to have the fruit of his loins running around the beach at some point. And what image cemented this idea for him was the consistent daydream of having John and Sherlock both good-naturedly fighting about whose turn it was to put this child on their shoulders.

 

Now if only the daydream could come true.

 

*   *   *

 

“Hello! Is anyone in?” Greg called up from downstairs, waiting to hear a reply, for the first time shy about what he might find.

 

If he were very lucky, John and Sherlock would be _in flagrante delicto_. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, the detective inspector decided to keep expectations low and be a touch more cautious than he usually was when he arrived at Baker Street. He knew enough from his mobile communication with Mycroft that no one was dead or in hospital, which was fantastic news really.

 

“Lestrade! What are you waiting for? Get up here!” Sherlock’s booming baritone was unmistakable.

 

And it was unmistakably cheerful.

 

“Is John in?” Greg asked as he began the ascent, taking two steps at a time. Damn, it felt good. Like being on a case again –

 

“What do you think, you bastard? Hurry up!” John was sounding loads better than the last time they’d spoken.

 

It was morning, so when Greg pushed the door open, he wasn’t surprised to see John cleaning up the last remnants of breakfast from the table. Since John’s hands were busy, Sherlock, in his maroon dressing gown, easily became the first of the two flatmates to embrace him, pulling him in for a hungry kiss. Greg tasted not just the bitterness of the coffee, but also the sweetness of the fruit from one of Mrs. Hudson’s jam tarts.

 

It was _so_ good to be back.

 

And speaking of ‘back,’ he didn’t have to guess who it was, up against him from behind, blowing puffs of sweet air on the nape of his neck, raising the hairs and gooseflesh along it –

 

Someone put a hand (or hands?) very gently on the front of his trousers.

 

“Mmm, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?” he murmured between kisses.

 

“After doing a cursory exam, I believe our detective inspector can resume his activities –“

 

“Oh you think so, smart arse?” Greg turned around to give John a much longed-for kiss.

 

Now he knew that the lips on his earlobe and the hands unzipping his fly and pulling aside his pants to free his cock belonged to Sherlock. _Cor blimey, this is hard to concentrate._

 

“Yes, I do,” John kissed him so passionately back, it belied how cool his voice sounded, “And this is the doctor in me talking –“

 

“Enough talk, I want a doctor _in_ me.”

 

Sherlock whispered, but it felt louder than anything, “It’s only fair, he gets you first. I had you _last_ –“

 

Greg could feel John smile through their making out.

 

“The idiot has been torturing me with that very fact for the last month.”

 

Greg took one his hands out of John’s hair to wrap around behind him and squeeze Sherlock’s bum, “Is that right,” his voice tumbled out like gravel, “So I take it you didn’t –“

 

“We tried,” Sherlock said for both of them, “on your behalf. We ended up bickering. The only thing we agreed on is that we missed you. Physically –“

 

“—and mentally,” John looked deep into Greg’s eyes before breaking into laughter, “as in this bastard drives me mental without you here.”

 

It was better than he could really imagine. If John and Sherlock were feline in nature, they’d be purring. Greg felt as though his instincts were finally correct.

 

So he turned and gave one last nerve-shattering kiss to Sherlock before taking John’s hand and leading him upstairs.

 

“Time for a full exam, I think, love.”


End file.
